


At Spell's End

by Leela



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Fall Fantasia, Gender Issues, M/M, not-quite-your-usual-girl!Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-27
Updated: 2010-03-27
Packaged: 2017-10-08 09:02:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/74904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leela/pseuds/Leela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After killing Voldemort, Harry discovers that Dumbledore kept one last secret. And this one requires him to make a decision that affects everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At Spell's End

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iulia_linnea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iulia_linnea/gifts).



> This isn't a story that I ever considered writing, until I was called on to write for Iulia Linnea in the Fall Fantasia fest on InsaneJournal. I tell it with much love and respect for those, both friends and strangers, who deal with these issues every day.
> 
> If you want spoilers and additional warnings, please see the end notes.

> The vast majority of spells, charms, jinxes, hexes, and curses vanish upon the death of the caster. This rule, like all others, has exceptions.  
> — _Basic Spellcrafting_, by Serafina Radford

The morning after he defeated Voldemort, Harry ached from head to foot. Every single part of his body hurt. The good news, as far as he was concerned at least, was that his head was merely sore; he didn't have the usual pounding agony radiating out from his scar. As he had done every morning for as long as he could remember, he ignored the pain and stretched carefully, tensing and relaxing every muscle from his toes to his forehead and back down again. Then, when he felt ready to move, he reached for the over-sized dressing gown he'd left by the side of the bed and swathed himself in its comforting softness before heading for the loo.

In the bathroom, Harry took care of his necessities and just stood there, staring. He was stumped. _His_ shower in the Gryffindor boys' bathroom, the one he'd always used, was stuck in an awkward corner. It couldn't be seen from anywhere else in the room.

_This_, however, was awful. If he didn't hurt so much, he'd have cast a few cleaning charms on himself and left the Hufflepuff boys' bathroom to everyone else who'd camped out in the boys' dorms.

But Harry wasn't willing to forego the relief he got from all that hot water pounding on his aching muscles. So, he took a deep breath, checked everywhere else in the room to make sure it was empty, and took the shower furthest from the door. He hung his pyjamas and then his dressing gown over the opaque glass door, covering as much as he could, and entered the semi-darkness of the shower stall.

The water turned on immediately. Hot and full-blast, just the way he liked it. Turning slowly, twisting and stretching his body, Harry luxuriated in the warmth and the way the water eased his aches and pains.

When he was ready to wash himself, shampoo, soap, and a flannel appeared on a shelf in one corner. He poured shampoo in the palm of his hand and began washing his hair. The scent was familiar, sparking a faint memory, but it wasn't until he had soap frothing on the flannel and was rubbing it over his chest that he remembered.

Cho had smelt like this. He brought the cloth to his nose and breathed in. Somehow uplifted by the scent, he went back to cleaning himself. He had his soft penis in hand and was washing his bollocks and that oddly sensitive spot behind them when he discovered he wasn't alone in the room.

"Harry? You in there, mate?"

Ron's voice set Harry's heart to pounding and his prick to twitching. He considered not answering, pretending to be someone else, but he knew Ron too well to believe either of those would work. "Y...yeah. Just... give me a minute, all right?"

"No worries."

Harry could hear Ron stumbling about the bathroom. After so many years sharing a bathroom, he didn't even have to guess at what Ron was doing. Loo first, followed by a yawning scratch of his stomach as he checked himself out in the mirror.

"You need a shower, young man." The scolding voice made Harry jump. "And don't you be showing me that tongue. I don't know where it's been."

"Sodding mirrors," Ron grumbled. "Should at least have the decency to let a man wake up before harassing him."

Talking mirrors? In the loo? What on earth was it with these Hufflepuffs? Bloody exhibitionists, that's what they were. And they always seemed so innocuous. Well, except for their revolting house colours, but that was hardly their fault, was it?

The water refused to turn off. His wand was in his dressing gown pocket. And how fucking stupid was that? At least the water was warm enough for him to hide in here until Ron was done and gone.

"Fuck, yeah. Nothing like a good wank in the morning, huh, Harry?"

"Yeah," Harry said, wanting Ron to keep talking. Something about his voice, about the way it vibrated when Ron was wanking, always turned Harry on and sent an odd ache spreading up into his stomach from between his legs. Harry sighed and slid down into the corner of the shower. He spread his legs, letting the water pound down on his prick and bollocks. One hand grasping his prick, the other rubbing _that_ spot behind his bollocks, he listened to Ron moan and groan.

"Being alive," Ron panted. "Best feeling in the fucking... oh... ngh... wor... ah... ld."

Harry knew what Ron looked like. His legs spread, one large hand twisting and tugging on his prick, the other toying with his nipples, his head thrown back, and his hips pumping.

And as Ron groaned his orgasm, Harry's own swamped him.

~*~

  


> Protection spells and wards created through blood magic cast by family members can last for the recipient's lifetime. Spells that are renewed by the caster's descendants, such as the wards which protect Hogwarts and many pureblood family homes, may never expire.  
> — _Basic Spellcrafting_, by Serafina Radford

"If you're going to help, you'll need one of these." Madam Pomfrey handed Harry an apron. "The instructions for the sterile glove charms are on the wall over there. You're required to remove and recast the charm after every patient."

"Not a problem." Harry nodded and pulled the neck of the apron over his head.

"Thank you, Harry." Pomfrey's smile was tired, but no less genuine. "We're full to bursting around here, and St Mungo's has just said they can't take any more. When you're ready, come see me in the ward."

Harry wrapped the apron ties around his waist twice and tied the ends in a careful bow. The belting tightened the fit of his too-large and supposedly ragged t-shirt, ensuring that the fire-imp silk lining caressed his skin every time he moved. He wriggled a little, indulging himself in the comforting sensation of the soft cloth, as he practiced the glove charm.

The morning flew past. He dosed patients with pre-measured potions, fluffed pillows, distributed breakfast and lunch, fed patients who couldn't feed themselves, and Banished more bodily fluids than he knew existed.

He'd finally managed to eat a sandwich and was picking a book to read to a third-year Ravenclaw who'd caught the tail-end of a eye-popping hex, when McGonagall came bustling up to him.

"_There_ you are." She looked frazzled and exhausted. The hem of her skirt was ripped, and the edge of a bandage was visible beneath her sleeve.

"I've been on ward all morning," Harry said. "Everywhere but the private rooms."

"We need—" McGonagall paused and shook her head. "The wards need replenishing. Usually four teachers perform this task each year, but too many of us are injured. Professor Dumbledore suggested that... that you have the power required despite your..." She cleared her throat. "Could you come with me?"

"All right," Harry said, more than a bit confused. "Just give me a sec to—" He waved at his apron.

"Join us in Headmaster Snape's room." She pointed at a door to one of the private rooms. "Quickly, Mr Potter."

~*~

"...against my advice. Not that you've ever listened to me, Severus. I don't know why I thought you'd start now." Pomfrey hurried out of Snape's room, almost running into Harry. She grasped Harry's wrist. "Don't let him exert himself, or you'll waste all that effort we put into saving his life. And make sure they all take the potions when it's done."

The room was small and dim, lit only by a pair of candlesticks on a side table, and reeked of potions. Snape lay in the bed, propped up on pillows. His hair had been hacked short the night before, to keep it out of his wound. His skin was almost as pale as the bandage that covered his throat.

McGonagall sat in a chair on one side of the bed, and Flitwick was perched on a stool at the other side. Dumbledore watched over everything from a portrait on the wall at the foot of the bed.

"Potter," Snape rasped.

"Severus," Minerva scolded him, interrupted whatever he'd been about to say. "The only words you're allowed to say are the ward spells. You know that."

"Headmaster," Harry said. "It's good to see you."

The disgusted sneer on Snape's face had Harry fighting a smile.

"Harry, my dear b... thank you for coming," Dumbledore said. "Filius, if you could give Harry your seat and take up a position on Severus's bed."

"Of course," Flitwick levitated from his stool to stand between Snape's legs.

McGonagall's eyebrows seemed to fly up into her hairline. "But Albus?"

"Not now, Minerva," Dumbledore chided her. "The wards cannot remain in this state."

Snape's snort might have been amusement, but Harry wasn't sure. Feeling more than a bit out of place, he took the hands that Flitwick and Snape held out to him and waited.

"We stand for the Founders today, Harry." Flitwick explained, squeezing Harry's fingers with his own tiny hand. "Simply focus your magic on the Headmaster's words. That's all we require of you."

Snape's hand felt hot and a bit sweaty in Harry's, but that was the only outward sign that Snape might not be up to this wardcasting. Harry turned his head to say something, but the look in Snape's eyes kept him silent.

The words that Snape spoke were too low, too guttural, too mangled by Snape's damaged throat for Harry to understand them. So, he focussed on the rhythm, on the sparks that seemed to fly around the circle formed by the four of them. He pushed his magic out, felt it being tested and accepted. Other voices, both male and female, echoed through the room. Unfamiliar magic swirled around and through them.

When it was over, Harry sagged back against the stool. Hoarse breaths filled the room, followed by a hacking cough that drove Harry to his feet and over to the tray of phials on the side table. Checking the labels, he handed one each to Flitwick and McGonagall, then took the others over to Snape.

That Snape took the phials and downed the potions without protest or question told Harry exactly how sick the man was.

"I'll go get Pomfrey," Harry said.

He'd just opened the door when Snape spoke. His words were halting, and each one seemed to be measured in pain. "Explain today, Dumbledore. Before it's too late."

Then Snape passed out, and Pomfrey was in the room, and Harry's questions disappeared in the urgency of following her instructions.

~*~

  


> A very limited number of spells, almost all of which fall into the Dark Arts category, remain in place until a specified event occurs in the victim's life. If that event occurs after the caster's death, then the spell will survive such death.  
> — _Basic Spellcrafting_, by Serafina Radford

Two days later, Hermione joined Harry for lunch at one of the many small tables that had been set up in one of the ground floor classrooms. The Great Hall was off-limits until it had been repaired. As they caught up with what they'd been doing for the past couple of days, Harry found himself telling her all about the wardcasting.

"But that doesn't make sense, Harry." Hermione frowned as she stabbed her fork into a carrot. "According to _Hogwarts: A History_, the teachers who participate in the wardcasting have to match the Founders. Two men and two—"

"Harry," Ron said, dropping into a seat next to Hermione. "McGonagall wants to see you in the Headmaster's office."

"Now?" Harry glanced mournfully at his barely-touched Shepherd's Pie.

"Sooner, if you can manage it, given the look on her face." Ron checked out the mostly empty platters and bowls on the table before gesturing at Harry's plate. "Can I have that then? Since you have to go?"

"Yeah, I guess." Harry shoved his lunch across the table and got to his feet. "I'll see you afterwards, all right?"

Ron nodded, his mouth already full of Harry's food. The line between Hermione's eyebrows deepened and she suggested, "I could come with you."

"Thanks, but I think I'll be okay. It's not like I haven't been there before."

"As long as you're sure," Hermione said.

"Sure as I can be, I guess."

~*~

As Harry walked up the disconcertingly unmoving stairways to the seventh floor, he toyed with a piece of velvet ribbon that he'd found in his back pocket. He'd been about to tie back Lavender's hair with it the day before when one of the mediwitches helping Pomfrey had called for help, and Harry must have shoved it into his pocket as he ran to Hestia Jones's bed.

The gargoyle had been righted but it still stood open, not preventing anyone from entering the Headmaster's office.

Harry rubbed his hand over the top of its head as he moved past and climbed up the spiral staircase.

The office was empty when he got there. Even the portraits had deserted their frames. One chair sat in front of the desk. One length of parchment lay on the polished wood.

_Read me_, was written across the top.

It took Harry three tries before he understood the rest of the words on the parchment. And, even the third time through, he kept mumbling "No" over and over again. Except he knew it was true, knew that Dumbledore had cursed him, sacrificed his future in the name of defeating Voldemort.

"You fucking bastard," he yelled at Dumbledore, who had reappeared in his frame while Harry was reading.

"I'm so sorry, my—"

"Don't you dare call me that! Do you _know_ what you did to me? I thought I was losing my fucking mind. Freakier than the worst freak ever."

"The prophecy—"

"Sod the fucking prophecy. What about me?" Harry pulled out his wand and aimed it at Dumbledore. "God, I should just _Incendio_ your portrait and be done with it and you."

"I'd hardly blame you if you did. I've been tempted to do it myself more than once."

Harry swung around and aimed his wand at Snape, who stood in the doorway that led to the Headmaster's quarters.

He watched Snape move into the room, his body held so rigidly that Harry had to grip his wand and force himself not to help him. "Aren't you supposed to be in hospital?"

Snape shrugged and half-sat, half-collapsed in the chair behind the desk. The bandage around his neck was barely larger than a sticking plaster, but he was still paler than usual.

"How long?" Harry glanced from Dumbledore to Snape and back again. "How long?"

"Until the spell wears off?" Dumbledore said. "That's unclear. You may have as much as a month."

A derisive noise came from Snape. "Don't compound your lies with half-truths."

"You explain then," Harry snarled at Snape.

"Are you sure you want this from me?" Snape rested his chin on his steepled fingers and met Harry's gaze.

"You won't lie to me. Not about this."

"You must understand, Harry," Dumbledore began.

"_Shut it!_ Haven't you done enough?" Harry's anger sent a surge of magic through his wand that blasted the corner off Dumbledore's frame.

"I'll leave you to it, then." And with that Dumbledore disappeared from his portrait.

Harry hissed.

"Sit down, Potter." When Harry didn't immediately obey, he continued, "I would prefer not to force you. However, I am not willing to continue staring up at you and hurting my neck."

The chair Harry had sat in to read that damned parchment came up behind him and bumped the back of his legs.

"Sit."

Unable to come up with a reason not to, Harry sat. He pulled his feet up onto the chair seat and then grabbed the arms when the chair slid back into place in front of the desk.

"It's a trifle early, but I, for one, am not willing to have this discussion unaided." A lazy wave of Snape's wand opened a cupboard and floated a bottle and two glasses over to the desk. "Whisky?"

Harry just stared at him. Words crowded his mind — vicious and mean words, angry words, sad words — but he couldn't for the life of him work out which ones to say. So, he didn't say any of them.

"It's Lagavulin." Snape put a glass down in front of Harry. "Don't waste it."

Picking up the glass, Harry sniffed the amber liquid. Whatever Lagavulin was, it smelt almost as foul as the shite Uncle Vernon drank on a Sunday after dinner. Uncle Vernon. A strange noise that wasn't quite a sob escaped from Harry. At least the fat pillock couldn't call him _boy_ any longer. Freak, yeah, but...

"...aren't going to listen, Potter, at least do me the courtesy of saying so. I do not wish to strain my throat needlessly."

Heat flushed through Harry's face. "Sorry, 'm listening."

"That would be an improvement." Snape sipped from his glass. "I do not know all of the details, and my memories have only recently been returned to me, so refrain from interrupting me with your usual reams of puerile questions."

Harry nodded, biting back the urge to tell the git to just get to the fucking point already.

"Since you are already aware of the prophecy, I shall not bore either of us by reiterating it. Suffice it to say that your parents, being the idiotic Gryffindors that they were, agreed to go into hiding as a way to distract the Dark Lord from the baby that Dumbledore believed was the true focus of the prophecy."

"Neville."

"Quite." Snape took another sip of his drink. "I was also led to believe that Lily, your mother, was in danger."

"Sending you off to try and save her."

"_Potter_! If you do not wish me to tell this story..."

"Sorry."

"Hmm... if you say so."

"I am," Harry insisted. "I'm the one who asked you to tell me what happened, remember."

"True," Snape said, then he sighed. "I believe that my actions, in begging for your mother's life, are the reason the Dark Lord turned his attentions from the Longbottoms and baby _Neville_—" he sneered the name "—to your parents and you."

The guilt that flashed across Snape's face kept Harry from saying anything.

"The problem that Dumbledore faced in the aftermath of your defeat of the Dark Lord and your... Lily's death was that you didn't meet the terms of the prophecy."

Tears prickled Harry's eyes as he glared at Snape over his own, still untouched glass.

"Surely, Potter, even your miniscule brain can fill in the rest."

"Just say it," Harry said. "Make it real."

"Before dropping you off at your relatives' hovel." Snape drained the last of his whisky and slammed his glass down on the desk with a thud that made Harry jump. "Before he did that, Albus Dumbledore cast a spell with that sodding Elder Wand and transformed you into a boy."

Harry could feel himself shaking, but he couldn't seem to stop. Everything was rattling: the desk, the oddments on the tables and shelves, the portrait frames, and the windows. He couldn't stop any of that, either.

A movement caught his eye, so he looked at Snape who was clearly saying something. Snape's lips were moving, but Harry couldn't hear anything except the rattling. The sweep of Snape's wand and the peaceful darkness that came with his red spell-light were a relief.

~*~

  


> Always take into consideration every possible way in which your spell might be used. Even the Lightest of spells, when cast against the victim's will, has the potential to wreak destruction.  
> — _Basic Spellcrafting_, by Serafina Radford

Harry woke up in a pitch-dark room. He moved his legs, slowly and carefully, and determined that he was lying on a large bed. When his aching muscles were stretched out, he pushed himself to a sitting position.

To his left, a candle flared into light. He squinted in that direction and identified something that might be his glasses on what was probably a bedside table. Three fumbles later, his glasses were on his nose and he was examining the room. The first door he tried led to a bathroom, which reminded his bladder that he'd been ignoring it.

He'd just finished shaking himself off and was reaching over to flush the toilet when he looked down. At his penis.

His stinking lie of a penis.

Nausea roiled in Harry's stomach. He barely had time to flush away his urine before he was on his knees, throwing up what little he'd eaten.

When the bathroom door opened, he was sprawled over the toilet, clutching his stomach, and managing nothing but painful dry heaves.

Snape wasn't gentle or kind, but he was efficient. A cool, damp flannel whisked from the sink and wiped itself across Harry's face. The toilet flushed as Snape pressed Harry back away from it to lean against the tiled wall. Then, barely giving Harry time to open his mouth, Snape tipped a phial of potion between his lips.

"You'll have to get yourself up," Snape said. Just before he left the room, he added, "There's clean clothing on the bed. I assume you're capable of dressing yourself."

~*~

The clothing turned out to be a pair of drawstring trousers and a collarless shirt. The black and green plaid flannel was soft and worn. And far too big. Harry rolled up the legs and the sleeves until he was sure he wouldn't trip over them or embarrass himself. Then he looked around the room for somewhere to deposit his own clothes. When he couldn't see anything, he shrugged and Banished them.

Less than a second after they disappeared, Harry remembered the fire-imp silk lining he'd sewn into the clothes to make them more comfortable against his skin. He really was an idiot sometimes. _That_ was not going to be quite as easily replaced as Dudley's hand-me-downs.

Not a damn thing he could do about it, though. So, he pushed open the one door he hadn't tried the last time and found himself in a short, narrow hallway with three other doors leading off it. The door at the far end was cracked open, spilling light into the hallway. Assuming that was a hint, Harry walked the few steps and went through the door.

The sitting room was small and crowded despite the fact that it held only two armchairs, each with its own spindly side table, and a round table with a matching ladder-back chair that had been pushed into a corner. Everything else was books and parchment scrolls: on shelves that towered from floor to ceiling, on the mantelpiece, on all of the tables, and in teetering piles on the floor.

The top of Snape's head was visible over the back of one of the chairs. A steaming mug sat on his side table.

"There's soup," Snape said, without turning around. "You might as well help yourself, because no one else will."

"Thanks," Harry mumbled. He made his way over to the round table. The only part of the surface not covered in books or parchment held a tray with a covered pot, two bowls, two plates, some cutlery, and bread and butter. Harry lifted the lid and found clear golden soup. He ladled a bit into the bowl, picked up a spoon, and took it over to the armchair opposite Snape.

He sat for a while, staring into the fire, cradling the bowl in his hands. He had thoughts, he was pretty sure, although he couldn't have identified a single one of them. Not even to save what was left of his life.

"Eat, Potter." Snape's command startled Harry.

"What?"

"Don't waste good food." Snape flicked his wand in Harry's direction.

Harry looked down at the bowl, which had warmed in his hand, then grinned at Snape. "Children starving in China, yeah?"

"Don't be any more stupid than you can help. Why should I care about children in China?" Turning a page in his book, Snape said, "Eat."

After he'd finished the chicken broth, Harry thought briefly about balancing it on top of the books on the table beside him. Glancing at Snape, he changed his mind and levitated the bowl and spoon back to the tray.

Snape kept reading, turning pages every so often.

A quick check of the books next to him only proved that they weren't anything that Harry would ever consider reading, even if he were in his right mind, which he clearly wasn't. Not when the word _girl_ kept ambushing his thoughts.

Harry crossed his right leg over his left, and decided that if Dumbledore weren't already dead, he'd fucking kill him. Slowly and painfully.

Or maybe he'd make him sit in one of these chairs for a few hours? They were more like instruments of torture than furniture. He crossed his left leg over his right.

There had to be a spell or a potion or a ritual to resurrect the dead, yeah? Jiggling his left foot and tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair, Harry contemplated ways to kill Dumbledore. Start with the chair, and then — he uncrossed his legs and leant forwards — bashing him over the head with that iron raven on the hearth might be good.

"Sit still."

"I am." Straightening up, Harry rested his right foot on his left knee.

"You're fidgeting."

"I'm not."

"Do you require the dictionary definition?"

"No." Trying not to move, which was next to impossible when someone ordered him to, Harry checked out the stuff on the mantel. There had to be something else Harry could use to hurt Dumbledore.

"Potter!"

Fuck, he hated it when Snape made Harry's surname sound like something foul and disgusting. "Sorry."

And there went that eyebrow. One of these days Harry was going to figure out how Snape did that.

"I'm trying, all right."

"You're very trying."

A single, short burst of laughter came out of Harry. "God, you're an arse."

"Would you rather I tossed you out in the corridor and left you to the tender mercies of your friends?" Snape peered down his nose at Harry. "I'm sure Miss Granger will have countless questions for you. And Mr Weasley will utter one of his usual pithy yet worthless comments."

A shudder went down Harry's spine. "You wouldn't do that to me, would you?"

"If I were so inclined, I would have done it already."

"Thanks. I'm sure that having me here isn't exactly what you want. I mean, it's not as if we're friends or anything. Although I did—"

"Harry," Snape cut through Harry's ramblings.

"Er... yeah?"

"If I didn't want you here, you wouldn't be here."

"Oh." Harry frowned in confusion. Because I'm a girl who looks like... would he still look like his dad when this was all over? Or his mum? Or one of his grandmothers? Or... holy Merlin, what if he looked like his Aunt Petunia?

"If you're going to be sick again, at least have the decency to return to the bathroom."

"Not going to be sick." And he wasn't going to look like his Aunt Petunia, either, even if he had to take Polyjuice every hour on the hour for the rest of his life.

"Good." Snape stood up and flicked his wand at the round table, Banishing the tray. Another series of flicks and swishes and a pile of books took the tray's place. "I recommend you at least skim the chapter I marked in the top book, as it refers specifically to the spell cast upon you."

Harry got up and watched Snape make his way to the door. With his hand on the doorknob, Snape turned around and glared down his nose at Harry. "I shall spend the night in the Headmaster's quarters. You are welcome to stay here. However, if you stick your nose into anything except the items on that table, or enter any room except this one, the bedroom and the bathroom, you won't have to worry about Dumbledore's spell. I'll turn you into a woman with my bare hands."

~*~

  


> When crafting a spell, always consider how the spell will be reversed, whether by a simple _Finite Incantatem_, a more complex counter-spell, or even a potion.  
> — _Basic Spellcrafting_, by Serafina Radford

After a restless few hours in front of the fire, on an uncomfortable pallet that he'd transfigured from a lumpy cushion, Harry gave up on sleeping and started reading. Shortly after nine o'clock in the morning, according to his _Tempus_ charm, he dropped the last of Snape's books onto the pile and rested his head in his hands. The pile toppled over, spilling books around where he lay on the floor in front of Snape's fireplace. He'd skimmed every chapter and page Snape had marked in those books and still had more questions than answers.

Books were bloody useless when you were trying to figure out exactly how badly a curse was going to fuck up your life. _For enemies_ didn't even hint at the blood that flowed when you sliced open someone's chest. _Splitting the soul_ didn't describe the horror that crawled over you when you realised that there was a part of an evil madman inside you. And _recovering your natural gender_ didn't provide any indication of how it felt to have your insides rearranged, your penis and testicles disappear, a fucking hole drilled between your legs.

His curiosity piqued rather than sated, Harry scrambled to his feet. He Summoned a glass from the table and transfigured it into a cheval mirror. When the mirror was tilted just right in its stand, he closed his eyes and, before he could change his mind, cast an undressing charm.

Placing his wand within close reach, Harry opened his eyes and examined himself. In a way he'd never done before.

Short and skinny, Harry thought, neither tall like Ron nor broad and muscular like Neville. No hair on his chest or back, unlike Seamus. Even Dean had some chest hair. Then again, Harry sighed, lifting his prick, at least Dean was hung.

"Are you a boy or a girl, Harry?" Luna's question startled him.

"Luna," he squeaked, flattening his hand over his prick. "What are you doing here?"

"You needed me."

"But... how...?"

"He let us find sanctuary here," Luna said, running a hand across the back of Snape's armchair before smiling at Harry. "And he hasn't changed the password."

"Would you shut your eyes?" Harry attempted to keep his bits covered whilst fumbling for his wand. "Please?"

Luna drifted over to stand behind Harry. She turned him around to face the mirror again. "You shouldn't hide. Not from yourself or from anyone else. You need to see if you're going to know."

"Know?"

"If you're a boy or a girl." She encouraged him to move both of his hands to his sides. "You're very lucky, you know. You can be whatever you want."

"But—"

"No buts. Not for you."

When Harry tried again, she placed a finger over his lips and shushed him. A circular motion with her wand hand brought a bottle skimming over to hover off to one side. The label on the bottle bore the legend _Drink me?_ in Snape's distinctive red-ink scrawl.

"You can return to being your Daddy's little girl—" Luna slipped her finger down from Harry's lip, stroking all the way down to his navel "—or you can drink this and remain the boy that Dumbledore made."

"A freak," he whispered. "I guess they were right."

"_They_ are idiots," she said. "_We_ will love you no matter what you are."

"You don't..." Harry hesitated and leant back against her before continuing, "I'm a freak to them, and all they knew was the magic. If they'd had the least suspicion... if I'd let myself even think about it... I don't know."

"Don't you want to know?"

As he stared at himself in the mirror, trying to imagine what he — _she_ — would look like, he could see Luna's reflection moving her wand in a complicated series of curlicues, swishes, and flicks.

And then his own reflection was a girl. Her face was a little rounder, her black hair was shoulder-length and curly. She had small breasts and narrow hips that flared out from a small waist. The rest of his body seemed the same. Except for the upside-down triangle of hair where his prick had been. He tilted his head and considered that, not really sure what to make of it. But even as he tried to work out how he should react, he was drawn to her.

"Oh," he said, reaching out only to find himself touching glass.

"You're lovely, Harry. Whether you're a boy or a girl." Luna's smile was impish as she dipped a curtsey, then pressed a kiss onto his cheek.

He couldn't take his eyes off his reflection. "I never dreamt."

"You should have," Luna said and skipped backwards. "Don't let the bottle drop."

It took him less than a second to snap out his hand and catch the bottle, but by the time he turned around, the bottle clutched to his chest, Luna was gone. When he turned back, the mirror was once again a glass, lying on its side on the floor.

~*~

At a certain point, when Harry's knees started to complain, he roused himself from his position kneeling on the floor. He put the potion bottle on the floor next to the glass and used his hands to push himself onto his feet. After a few stretches, he started walking around the room. He ran his fingers along the spines of the books, but didn't pay much attention to their titles.

Questions and facts tumbled over each other in his mind. If he drank that potion, would he really stay a boy? Spell-cast males were infertile. He'd never had an urge to try on any of the clothes in his Aunt Petunia's wardrobe. He loved the feel of fire-imp silk and velvet, though. Could he be, should he be, was he the girl in the mirror? The _Prophet_ would have a fucking field day with that. Did Snape really love his mum?

At the last question, he almost tripped and fell flat on his face. He saved himself by grabbing onto the closest shelf and bruising his hand in the process.

Shaking out his hand, swearing a blue streak, Harry realised two things. He'd left his wand over by his clothes. And he was walking around Severus Snape's quarters naked.

That second realisation led to the disturbing — and completely random — thought that he'd never seen Snape naked. In fact, that time in his infirmary room was the only time he'd seen Snape without umpteen layers of clothing.

That was enough to send Harry running back to pull his borrowed clothes back on. Then, he flopped back down on the floor and reached for one of the books Snape had left him, resolutely refusing to allow his, apparently perverted, imagination to wander down that particular path again.

A line in the book sent him back to the potion bottle. Holding the bottle in his left hand, he aimed his wand at the label. "_Specialis Revelio_."

The question mark on the label curved into something that could have a smirk and then expanded into another series of spiky words. _Drink me_," the label now said, "_before you revert to being female, and you'll remain a spell-cast male. This potion, however, is not responsible for any misery you inflict upon yourself by taking it._"

Harry stared at the label, anger growing in him. Misery? His entire life was being upended, and Snape was putting a disclaimer on it? That fucking bastard. How dare he?

Wand gripped in one hand, potion bottle in the other, Harry slammed out of Snape's quarters and stalked off.

~*~

"_Misery_? I'll give you misery, you arrogant twat," Harry yelled as soon as he caught a glimpse of Snape. He stomped up to him and brandished the potion bottle. "What the hell gives you the right to decide what will make me miserable? Huh?"

When Snape took a step back without responding, Harry stepped forwards. "I don't even know what I want to be. How dare you assume that taking this—" he shook the bottle right under Snape's nose "—will make me miserable?"

"Everything will make you miserable. _ Life_ is a misery." Snape slapped Harry's hand and the potion bottle away from his face. "I simply refuse to be held responsible for anything, good or bad, that occurs to you as a result of your decision to take that potion."

"I'm responsible for my own actions, thank you very much. I don't need you or anyone else doing it for me."

The snigger from behind Harry had him cursing himself for not noticing the prat was in the corridor when he confronted Snape, even as he was swinging around and shoving his wand into Draco Malfoy's chest.

Malfoy held up his hands and smirked. "You are joking, aren't you, Potter? If the rest of us had done a fraction of what you did, we'd have been expelled."

"I wouldn't talk too loudly about expulsion, if I were you," Harry growled. "You weren't exactly a saint."

"_I_ never claimed to be one," Malfoy said.

"Neither did I." Disgusted with himself and everything else, Harry yanked his wand away from Malfoy and shoved it into his pocket. "Not that anyone ever paid any attention to what I said."

"If you're quite done with your little self-indulgent snit, Potter," Snape began.

"Self... oh, that's rich, coming from you." Harry twisted his mouth. "Although I suppose I should congratulate you on changing the topic so completely."

"If you feel the need to discuss something with me, Potter, there are better places to do it than here." Snape looked meaningfully at Malfoy, who was leaning against the wall and watching them with avid interest.

"Don't mind me," Malfoy said. "Just pretend I'm not here and go on with whatever you were going to do. It's really rather fascinating."

"I think not," Snape responded. "Potter, if you wish to talk to me, I shall be in my quarters this evening. Until then, I have work to do."

Harry watched Snape walk away, robes billowing around his ankles. When turned back, the look on Malfoy's face prompted him to say, "Don't even bother asking" before heading off in the opposite direction to Snape.

~*~

  


> Consider not just the counter to your spell, but also whether you want to allow for methods to extend, twist, or renew its effects.  
> — _Basic Spellcrafting_, by Serafina Radford

The next few weeks were a rush of too much work and too little sleep. Harry worked almost around the clock — in infirmary, in the damaged parts of the castle, and in the greenhouses. Eventually though, Pomfrey, McGonagall, and Snape talked, and Harry found himself being turned away everywhere he tried to volunteer.

Go eat; relax with your friends; sleep; take a day off. Those were all lovely bits of advice... when Harry wasn't trying to avoid thinking, talking, and answering Hermione's endless questions.

With no work to distract him, Harry ended up back in Snape's dungeon quarters one morning, staring at himself in the mirror on the back of the bathroom door.

He wasn't much of a bloke for existential crises. Give him a dragon to deceive or a Dark Lord to fight and he'd be right there, coming up with plans even as he raised his wand and cast the first spell that came to mind. An utterly inappropriate firstie defensive charm would do the trick, because that's how things seemed to work for him.

This thinking stuff, though, this planning and considering all eventualities, this trying to work out what he'd buried in the depths of his own mind only ended up with him even more confused than he'd been when he started.

But he had to think. He had to work this out for himself. It would be so easy to take the potion and live his life as if he'd never heard about any of this, as if he'd always been a boy, always would be a boy.

How could he not be a boy?

Needing to see what he'd look like again, Harry pulled his wand out of his pocket and transfigured his jeans into a short denim skirt and his shirt into a blouse that looked more like the ones Parkinson wore for a Sunday in Hogsmeade than Hermione's usual outfit. Then again, Harry had always thought Hermione could dress a bit better. He, at least, had a reason for wearing clothes that looked like hand-me-downs.

He opened the door a bit further to adjust the angle of the mirror and twisted back and forth, trying to see himself from all sides. He was still too skinny, his knees were still a bit knobbly; all of the same things were still wrong.

Harry smoothed the skirt down over his thighs. Then he twirled around, doing his best to watch the skirt as it flared. As he stopped, laughing at himself, he noticed the change. His heart pounding, fear twisting in his chest, he leant closer to the mirror and raised a trembling hand to his jaw.

His skin was smooth. He had no stubble. He hadn't shaved that morning, or the morning before, and he... Had. No. Stubble.

It had started. His time to make up his mind was almost gone. He had to take that potion — _and soon_ — if he wanted to stay the boy that, as far as he knew, he'd always been.

Was he male or was he female?

"Shall I take this ridiculous outfit to mean that you've made up your mind?"

Snape's question startled Harry. For one almost hysterical moment, he thought he'd gone round the bend and was hearing the man in his head, but then he saw Snape leaning against a bed post, his arms crossed over his chest.

Harry stared into Snape's eyes. They held something for him. Not a lifeline, but perhaps an anchor; the kind that dragged you down while demanding that you swim.

"Do you want me to be a girl because I'll look like my mum?" The words burst out, before Harry could acknowledge he was thinking them.

"Don't be ridiculous." Snape came up behind Harry, put his hand on Harry's shoulders, and turned him to look into the mirror. "Dumbledore's spell didn't make those kinds of changes. You will still look like yourself. You will simply be female rather than male."

"You're avoiding my question."

Amusement flickered across Snape's face and was replaced by a cold, unwelcoming mask. He didn't say a word.

"Did you really love her that much? Like you said in your memories."

The pause while Snape released him and backed away wasn't quite awkward enough to make Harry want to take back the question. "It can be easier to believe a lie than to accept the truth."

"What the fuck does that mean?" Harry asked, as he followed Snape back into the bedroom and through into the living room. "Would it kill you to just answer a question, instead of spouting words that imply... shit, I don't even know what you're trying to imply." When Snape stopped in front of the fireplace, Harry grabbed the front of his robes. "Did you love my mother? Is that what you want from me?"

"Your mother was my friend. My best friend. My only friend for many years. How could I not love her?" Snape pried Harry's hands off his robes, but didn't release him. "And now that I've finally repaid my debt to her, I'm free to move on, to live the rest of my life as I will. Why on earth would I want to bring her back into my life?"

"Oh," Harry murmured.

"Make up your mind, Harry. Not for me, or your mother, or anyone else. Be who you want to be and don't let anyone tell you that it's wrong."

Not knowing what to say, or even how to respond, Harry spun on his heel and stomped out.

He half-ran down the hall, up the stairs, and through the Entrance Hall. He didn't pause or allow himself to be distracted, not by the whispers or the stares, nor by the friends and strangers who seemed intent on getting in his way.

~*~

"It's not about who I want to be. It's about... who I am," Harry muttered as he chucked a stone into the lake. "And they can't even give me a year to figure that out. Oh no, not me. Killed Voldemort for us? Well, bully for you." He threw another stone. "Don't bother relaxing, though, because we've got another impossible problem for you."

His last stone soared in an arc over the water and dropped with a loud splash.

The Giant Squid flipped a pair of tentacles at Harry, and he barked a short, painful laugh. "You too, huh?"

He sat down, grimacing when his bare legs hit damp, cool ground and reminded him that he was still in a skirt. That he'd walked through Hogwarts in a skirt.

"My life is so fucked up." Harry pulled up his knees, rested his chin on them, and stared out over the water.

"Yours and a lot of other peoples." Draco Malfoy's voice came from behind him.

Startled, Harry swung around, wand in hand, and then swore, "Damn it. Don't do that. I might have cursed you."

"Then you'd have felt all Gryffindor and guilty." Draco looked gleeful. "I could have taken you for _everything_."

"I'm not that much of a Gryffindor," Harry muttered."

"Whatever you say." A wave of Draco's wand conjured a blanket and a cushion. He sprawled next to Harry. "You might want to consider learning how to sit in a skirt. If you plan on continuing to dress that way."

Yanking at the hem of his too-short skirt, Harry buried his red face in his knees. "Come to gloat, Malfoy?"

"Did I miss something worth me putting the effort into gloating?"

Harry raised his head. "You mean you _don't_ know?"

"Clearly not," Malfoy said with asperity. "If I knew, I'd be gloating."

Snickering, Harry said, "Don't ever change, Malfoy. My life needs something that stays the same."

Malfoy sat up and stared at Harry. "Potter, what are you on about? And don't lie to me, because I'll know."

Turning his gaze back to the water, Harry toyed with the hem of his skirt and considered. Could he talk to Malfoy? Would the prat really be able to understand what it was like? To have someone else fuck with your life to further their own aims? Who else but Malfoy and Snape would understand? And he'd already wasted enough breath talking to Snape.

After swallowing the lump in his throat, Harry said, "All right."

Malfoy didn't respond. He just stared at Harry, his mouth sagging open.

"Not a good look on you, for the record." Harry reached over and closed Malfoy's mouth.

"Everything's a good look on me," Malfoy drawled and fluffed his hair.

"Prat."

"Wanker."

The next friendly insult hovered on the tip of Harry's tongue, but he couldn't bring himself to say it. Instead, he said, "You heard about the prophecy, yeah?"

He could see Malfoy consider a few sarcastic responses before saying, "The one about you defeating V... the dar..." Malfoy took a deep breath. "_Voldemort_."

Harry nodded. He picked up a twig and scratched at the ground with it, watching the random patterns he created as he quoted, "The Dark Lord will mark _him_ as his equal, but _he_ will have power the Dark Lord knows not."

"Emphasis yours, I presume."

"Yeah." Harry obscured everything with a squiggly line. "Prophecy required a boy and... well, my parents were supposed to be a red herring. Something to distract Voldemort from the _real_ Boy Who Lived. When he killed them and marked me, it... fucked everything up."

"You were a girl." Malfoy's words dropped into the silence like stones into the lake. "And Dumbledore... So _that's_ why you've been wandering around like someone drowned your kneazle."

Harry snorted and tossed his twig into the water. "I should dig up Dumbledore and Riddle and make them clean up their own messes."

"You do that, and you won't live long enough to worry about what gender you are. I'll AK you myself." Malfoy slapped his wand against his palm. "With great pleasure."

"Snape would probably get there first and have a lot more fun killing me."

"I'll give you first, but I'm not so sure about the pleasure." Malfoy frowned before adding, "You've managed to change the topic quite nicely, although I won't let you get away with it. In fact, I think I'll make it my job to make sure you don't get away with anything you don't deserve in the future."

"Thanks," Harry muttered. "I'll make sure to leave you something appropriate in my will."

"Boy or girl, Potter?"

"Don't know."

"Potter?"

"I. Don't. Know." Harry picked up another twig and started doodling over his original drawing.

Malfoy grabbed Harry's chin and forced Harry to meet his eyes. "You have to know. Because if you don't do anything, then _they_ win. You want them to continue deciding your life for you?"

"No." Harry tried to pull away, but Malfoy tightened his grip.

"Then don't take the stufflepuffing coward's route. _Decide_!"

Wrenching his chin out of Malfoy's grasp, Harry grabbed his shoulders and slammed him to the ground. "I haven't a fucking clue _how_ to decide. I've spent my entire life being used and abused, chased and attacked, cursed and bullied. When was I supposed to think about how much I hate my body?"

"Yes, Potter, yes," crowed Malfoy. He reached up and cradled Harry's cheeks, drew him down and smacked a kiss on his lips.

Stunned, Harry released him and fell to the side. Making a face, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He stuck out his tongue and said, "Do not _ever_ do that again."

Wiping his own mouth, Malfoy shook his head. "You don't have to worry about that. Really. Neville would kill me."

"Neville?" Still shaking from the implications of what he said, Harry grasped at the straw being offered. "Do tell."

"All in the interests of distracting you and giving you more time to come to terms with your decision, of course," Malfoy said. Adjusting his cushion, he lay back, stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankle, then started to talk.

~*~

The next morning, after another sleepless night, Harry squared his shoulders and walked up the unmoving staircase to the headmaster's office.

It was empty. No Snape.

He walked over and used his wand to rap on the frame of Dumbledore's portrait.

"Harry?" Nervous was a good look on the old headmaster, Harry thought.

"What did my parents call me?" Harry asked.

"Helena Lily Potter," Dumbledore said. "I tried to keep—"

"Thank you," Harry interrupted him. "That's all I wanted to know."

"Harry..."

"Don't apologise, all right? I won't believe a word of it."

"As you wish, my... as you wish." Dumbledore cocked his head, and Harry endured his examination. "You've made up your mind, then."

"Yes." Harry nodded. "I'll not be using Helena, though. I've been Harry too long to give up that piece of myself."

Ignoring all other attempts by the portrait to ask him questions, Harry turned his back on the portrait and walked back to the desk. He cleared a space on the surface, directly in front of Snape's chair, and placed the potion bottle in the centre.

Then, feeling lighter than he had in years, Harry left the office.

~*~

  


> Under no circumstances should you cast your spell on another living being until you are reasonably able to predict both its short- and long-term effects.  
> — _Basic Spellcrafting_, by Serafina Radford

"I've changed my mind." Harry turned to leave only to find her way blocked by Luna and Hermione.

"There's never going to be a good time, Harry," Ginny said from behind Harry, exasperation colouring her voice. "Now come on back and let me finish your hair."

"All right."

"You could sound a bit more enthusiastic," Hermione said, as she shepherded Harry back to the mirror.

"She's just being Harry." Luna drifted back to stand next to them.

As Ginny expertly wound a velvet ribbon into Harry's curls, Harry couldn't help thinking it was somehow appropriate that her first public appearance as a girl should be at a Ministry ball to celebrate Harry Potter's defeat of Voldemort — the months of transition that had occurred during the last trials didn't count since she'd hidden her changes so well that Skeeter hadn't even figured it out.

"You look lovely," Hermione reassured her.

Harry made a face at her.

"Don't insult our hard work." Ginny yanked one of Harry's curls in emphasis.

"I wouldn't dream of it." Harry's smile was tremulous, but she could feel it in the curve of her mouth and the crinkling of her eyes.

Ginny's hug was warm and comfortable and familiar. "You'll be fine," she whispered in Harry's ear. "And if Skeeter tries to fuck everything up, you can always just buy the damned _Prophet_ and fix her that way."

Harry sniffed as she muttered, "I fucking love you, you know."

"Yeah, yeah, easy for you to say now that we're sisters."

"It's time," Hermione announced.

Luna added, "I think we deserve a grand entrance."

Hands trembling, Harry smoothed down her black silk ballgown. She'd gone to a Muggle designer and had it made for her. Not that she didn't trust Madam Malkin or any of the others in the Wizarding world, but the Muggle hadn't even known there was a story to be had or reporters willing to pay for it.

~*~

The silence when Harry entered the ballroom, holding hands with Ginny and Hermione, who was in turn holding one of Luna's hands, was resounding. The noticeable pause before the cameras started clicking and flashing brought a grin to Harry's face.

"Harry, did you..."

"Harry, are you still..."

"Harry..."

"Harry..."

She held up her hand and waited until the shouted questions stopped. "Yes, I'm a woman and," she grinned at the women on either side of her, "damn proud of it." Her "most of the time" was silent, but Ginny squeezed her hand in reassurance anyway.

Then, they were through the door and in the ballroom. Harry was sure that there was lots of muttering and gossiping going on behind her back, but she did her best to ignore most of it.

Dancing, Harry had found, came far more naturally in this body, although it had taken weeks of lessons to get her even halfway comfortable with it. She spent most of her time on the floor, dancing with Ron, Draco, Arthur, Charlie, and Bill. Even Lucius Malfoy came over to bow over her hand, murmur his thanks for her testimony, and whirl her around the floor.

She was about to accept Neville's invitation, when Snape came up behind him and said, "I believe the next dance is mine."

Neville looked from Snape to Harry and back again, then nodded. "I'll catch you later, Harry." His reluctance seemed more real than faked, and the touch of his hand to Harry's shoulder was intended as support, but Harry barely noticed. She was too busy accepting Snape's hand.

Snape wore black robes. The swirling cut of the collar and placket, the heavy black silk, and the carved snakes on his buttons echoed the decorations on Harry's dress. He swept her onto the dance floor, holding her close enough that she could feel the heat of his body. Close enough that nothing else mattered, not even the stares and the whispers. Although she couldn't help noticing, and be grateful, that Snape's glare quelled several strangers attempts to approach between dances

During their third, uninterrupted dance — a waltz — Snape finally spoke again. "The dress suits you."

"You look great, too," Harry said with a smile.

Snape harrumphed.

They continued dancing in as much silence as was possible when continually avoiding being stepped on and bumped into by other couples. Between their third and fourth dance, Harry saw the glare that Snape directed on Seamus as he walked towards them and the way that Seamus held up his hands as he backed off.

"You could ask me," Harry suggested, heart beating fast as she lifted a hand to Snape's cheek.

"Indeed," Snape agreed and bent his head even as Harry raised hers.

Their first kiss was hard, demanding, and far too short. When Snape raised his head and made to draw away, Harry tightened her grip on his shoulder.

"Stay," she murmured.

"If you insist." Snape drew her closer, pulling their bodies into contact as they continued to move around the floor in a slow waltz.

Harry wrapped her arm around his neck, closed her eyes, rested her head against his shoulder, and smiled.

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> Additional warnings: considerations of gender and identity, transgender!Harry, not quite your usual girl!Harry story
> 
> Sometimes when I'm assigned a prompt for a fest, I look at the recipient's likes and dislikes and realise that any story and/or pairing they're going to really enjoy is going to be out of my comfort zone. That's definitely the case with this story. Still, that being said, I'm very proud of this story and hope that I did justice to its themes and to those who have gone through and are going through something similar to what I put Harry through.
> 
> Because, just as there must be queers in the Harry Potter universe, so must there also be transgendered people and those who struggle with gender identity.


End file.
